


There Will Be Forms To Fill In

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Consent, Consent Play, Demons, First Time, Gangbang, I Don't Even Know, Kink Meme, Loopholes, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Original Character(s), Plausible Deniability, Plot What Plot, Questionable Choices, Restraints, Rough Sex, Swearing, The Angel Is Demon Catnip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21817429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Aziraphale is sent to Hell, there's an argument about forms, the chairs are very uncomfortable, and no one seems the least bit interested in ravishing him. Really, does he have to do everything himself?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Demons
Comments: 141
Kudos: 528
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme, Most Favs





	There Will Be Forms To Fill In

He should have expected it really. Is it still a betrayal if you're starting to suspect that everyone is out to get you? 

The trap is quite clearly of angelic origin, and Aziraphale has a moment of genuine disappointment at how stupid they must think him, to not know that. Still it must be said, he was the one stupid enough to go to the meeting place, for the promise of an original manuscript in pristine condition, unearthed in an attic, and offered to him purely by coincidence.

Yes, he really does only have himself to blame.

But it's already too late, and he's in a dishevelled heap in a long, dark corridor, feeling tiny motes of corruption prick at his clothing and sink into his corporation. There's a film of dirt on everything, and the smoky, stale air is deeply unpleasant to breathe.

He remembers Crowley telling him that they'd taken down the 'Abandon All Hope' sign centuries ago, and replaced it with demotivational posters.

This is a very bad place for an angel to be, but he really has no choice but to follow the corridor and hope he can work out how to get out, since the way he came is clearly not an option.

The first door he finds leaves him in what looks like a large waiting room, ringed with small and uncomfortable looking plastic chairs, containing various bored looking demons, and a bare metal table with a variety of forms, two leaking pens and three bent paperclips on it.

A few of the demons are watching him with a curious sort of attention. He steps as casually and subtly as he can manage towards what seems to be the main desk.

There's an insect demon behind the solid wooden monstrosity, her four stick-thin arms shining black, half her face encased in what looks like the head of a beetle, or perhaps that's simply her face. Two metal cabinets are overflowing behind her. There's also a large sign that says **ADMISSIONS** on the wall. Then underneath, in smaller letters the words ' **wait time nine hundred hours**.' 

"Umm, excuse me." Aziraphale is trying to keep his voice at a level so as not to draw undue attention to himself, no more than he has already anyway. "I'm terribly sorry to bother you."

She's writing hurriedly and crookedly on a yellowed pad, pen leaking terribly, when her big eyes flick up to him - she stops writing, stares pointedly.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" she says simply. 

"I'm very sorry," he starts, as casually as he can manage. "But there seems to have been some sort of terrible mistake."

"No shit," she replies, which he has to admit, is a fair response. "You don't belong here."

She slides sideways, so either she has a wheeled chair or very interesting legs, and starts to go through the drawer of the filing cabinet beside her, muttering to herself angrily.

"They're supposed to notify us four weeks in advance, fill in at least six different forms, wait for three departments to sign off on it. But did I get any notification of that?" The insect demon turns around to jab a folder in his direction, it's greying and limp, creeping with mould at the edges. "Did I fuck. Did they even give you a waiver to sign?"

"Excuse me?" Aziraphale says, because he's more than a little confused. 

She makes a whistling noise of annoyance.

"Of course they bloody didn't, so there'll be no paperwork at all for your entry, will there? There are supposed to be forms for this sort of thing. They can't just be tossing angels downstairs without the proper forms, expecting us to deal with their problems for them. Do you have any idea how much trouble that would cause?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't, umm, look -" Aziraphale flounders, looking for some sort of name-tag, or nameplate.

"Lucille," the demon says, reluctantly, when the pause has gone on for too long.

"Lucille, if someone could just show me the way out I'll be no further trouble -"

She sighs, as if Aziraphale is the least of her worries today, throws up her hands.

"You know what, fine, I don't care. Just go and sit down, I'll send someone to look for the right form to send you back up top, and hopefully get you the Hell out of my chitin for good. I never bloody saw you."

Aziraphale is still confused, but he nods in a way that he hopes seems grateful and moves deeper into the room, considering the chairs that have been pushed and shoved apart so no one is forced to sit next to or behind anyone else. It lends the whole room a sort of community group air that probably shouldn't be so amusing. Most of the demons, for all their various demonic aspects, don't look threatening so much as deeply bored.

He takes a seat near a tall, pale demon who doesn't seem to be glaring quite so hard. The chair rocks gently underneath him when he settles his weight, leading him to suspect all of the legs are different lengths. It's really very uncomfortable, he doesn't feel stable at all.

"Aziraphale," he says to his new companion, because he believes in introducing himself. Just because you're in hell doesn't mean that good manners have to fall by the wayside.

"Rook," the demon offers, after a surprised pause. He has large, liquid eyes, completely black, and his hair seems to be comprised entirely of feathers.

"I didn't expect a waiting room," Aziraphale admits, because honestly, part of him had been preparing for the possibility of this for years. He'd braced himself to expect all manner of ill treatment, and brutality, and possibly even for the more intimate forms of torture. "I expected more in the way of - well, screaming and sharp implements. The impending threat of horrible torture, that sort of thing." He does hope it's not rude to admit to that. He'd hate to be rude to someone he's just met.

The crow demon's feathery eyebrows tick upwards. He looks almost amused. It's a very familiar expression, and strangely reassuring for all that Aziraphale has never seen him before.

"So, are you saying you'd _rather_ we were torturing you?" 

"Well, no, obviously," Aziraphale says with a frown. "But I certainly _expected_ there'd be someone waiting on the off-chance that an ethereal being dropped in, that I'd to be treated terribly, knocked around a bit at least. Since I am technically the opposition, and you're all occult forces sworn to menace and subdue me. This is Hell after all."

"Oh, he expected, did he?" The figure slouched in one of the other chairs says tartly, and when he leans forward Aziraphale can see that he's a long demon with six spidery arms and eight crimson eyes. "The angel expected us to descend on him like a bunch of bloody savages."

"Can't exactly blame him, Mantioch, you know the sort of shit they spread around in Heaven." That's a third voice, from a very large, solid-looking demon with clawed hands and a face that pinches in like a bat's. 

The fourth figure hasn't spoken, he simply looks amused. His hair covers his eyes, and his mouth stretches all the way across his face. Which means that his amusement contains an exceptional amount of sharp teeth.

"Mantioch, Belagor, Abraxas," Rook tells Aziraphale with a nod, and he murmurs a polite greeting to them all, which Belagor seems to find amusing.

"Doesn't help when you have people like Hastur giving us all a bad name." Mantioch manages to make the Duke's name sound like an expletive.

"Fucking Hastur," someone mutters in disgust from behind them all. Aziraphale turns to look, and finds a thin demon who seems to be leaking black oil from his eyes, ears, nose and mouth. His fingertips are glossy with the same.

"My fucking arsehole has more imagination than Hastur," Abraxas complains, and the overabundance of teeth gives his voice a strange clacking sort of cadence.

"Not to mention more charm and charisma," Rook mutters, which sets the other demons roaring with laughter.

"Schuldich," the oil-dripping demon provides, leant over the back of his broken chair, while the others are slapping each other.

"Pleasure to meet you," Aziraphale says, because there's no excuse for poor manners.

"Is it?" Schuldich asks, he sounds genuinely curious.

"So what exactly did you expect, angel?" Abraxas asks, clearly still amused. "Torture racks, chains and spikes, open dens of obscene depravity."

"It kind of did look like that in the - what was it, fourteenth to seventeenth century?" Rook muses. "They took a lot of those out to improve work efficiency." 

Aziraphale raises confused eyebrows. "Sorry, efficiency? How would that improve efficiency?"

"Hell's supposed to be miserable, but that's how we have fun," Belagor explains. "Human bodies are fragile but ours, ah, we like a bit of rough treatment, a bit of lashing, a few puncture wounds. We can stitch ourselves up afterwards, so it's not much more than a bit of an inconvenience. But they labelled it time wasting and moved it all into the lower pits, designated it work equipment only. You have to sign stuff out now." He makes a disgusted noise.

Abraxas nods agreement. "Yeah, it's mostly the threat of extreme torture that gets stuff going now. Menacing you with stabbing implements and so forth, bit of flaying if you resist too much, bit of groping to give it a sexual element for the crowd. We only really do the extreme violence to make a point, if someone really fucks up. Hell likes efficiency, can't be very efficient when you're regrowing your legs."

"Oh, I didn't know any of that," Aziraphale says, feeling rather spoiled by their willingness to share. Because he's always been happy to learn new things, and Crowley's never been comfortable talking about Hell, so it had always felt impolite to pry. As much as he would have been perfectly happy to listen to anything Crowley wanted to share. "I'd just been led to assume that if I was ever to end up in hell that I would be tortured, or perhaps defiled in some terrible occult way."

"Only if it's a really slow day," someone mutters from the back.

Rook's thin, black-lipped mouth twitches into a smile, while three of the demons laugh.

"Thought a lot about it did you?" he asks, to which Aziraphale colours, and that's rather more telling than he wishes it was. Because he has, perhaps, thought about it a touch more than was entirely appropriate. Over the years, centuries, well millennia really. The nature of his Arrangement with Crowley had given him ample opportunity to be temptation-adjacent.

"Perhaps he's a sex maniac," Mantioch offers, all eight of his red eyes fixed on Aziraphale.

"An angel can't be a sex maniac, you fucking idiot," Abraxas says, clearly disgusted with the level of intelligence in the room.

Mantioch looks offended.

"I'm not a sex maniac," Aziraphale protests, because he really feels like he should make that clear. "I'm not - I mean really, I couldn't be, angels aren't permitted."

"To be sex maniacs? I shouldn't wonder at it." Schuldich says flatly. Which gets another round of laughter, and a filthy aside that he chooses to ignore.

"To have sex," Aziraphale clarifies. "The fear of being summarily ejected from Heaven -" He stops, aware that he's conversing with a room full of demons, and this may be a sensitive subject. "My apologises, I didn't mean to offend."

"Hang on, they make you Fall if you have sex?" Mantioch says, sounding disgusted. "Fucking Hell, when did that become an addendum."

"Talk about tightening up the rules," Belagor grunts out. 

"That's ridiculous," Schuldich says tightly, mouth spattering oil on his clothes. "That's one of the best things humans invented."

"Don't exactly think they invented it," Rook protests. "Was pretty much baked in from the start, wasn't it."

"Alright, so they noticed the bits and thought it would be a good idea to mash them together in various configurations 'til they spurted on each other," Schuldich corrects tartly. 

"I - I have a lot of hobbies." Aziraphale feels compelled to explain, strangely embarrassed and suddenly feeling like he requires something in the way of justification. "Takes one's mind off of things." He'd been taking his mind off of things for a very long time. Taking his mind off of things while he watched humanity try a dizzying variety of positions, devices and fetishes, taking his mind off of things while the greatest literary minds of every age wrote sweeping stories of love and passion. Taking his mind off of things every time Crowley touched him, and then immediately flinched away, as if he thought Aziraphale might combust into flames on the spot. He knows, he knows that Crowley is terrified by the very idea of it. Which he can't help but feel guilty about. 

It's not his fault, not really. But sometimes, sometimes he feels like he's one damaged book away from - from doing something desperate and terrible.

Belagor makes a horrified noise. 

"That's worse, that's so much worse that is. So they make you think about it, they make you want it, but they don't let you have it? And you're stationed on Earth and everything, that's practically rubbing your nose in it all the time, that is, sticking it right in front of you on a - what's that thing food goes on?"

"Table?" Mantioch suggests.

"Plate," Aziraphale corrects automatically.

"Right, yes, they're sticking it on a plate, and making you sit around watching everyone else eat it, and you're not even allowed to - to even taste it or anything. And it's not even a punishment or anything."

"Satan, and I thought Hell could be cruel." Abraxas's strange clacking voice is almost sympathetic.

"No wonder you're obsessed with Hell's going's on then," Mantioch mutters. "Since you aren't allowed to do anything yourself." 

"Has to grate a bit that," Schuldich agrees. "You wondering if we're all down here fucking each other twenty-four seven, having a grand old demonic time."

"It's not that I wondered, per say, and certainly never obsessed, but the idea of having the freedom to - to discover if I would - or that perhaps it would be something that simply happened to me, if I were to be captured by hell. Since I've always assumed that..." He should stop talking, he really should, he suspects he's just digging himself a hole at this point. And a rather telling hole at that. He clears his throat pointedly, one hand curling round the other, fingers squeezing. It's a nervous habit, he knows, and angels shouldn't have them. He supposes he always has been something of a disappointment.

"That we'd all be sex maniac's?" Rook offers with a snort. "I mean don't get me wrong, some of us absolutely are. We're bloody demons after all. They'd have you arse up with your trousers down in a second, doing all sorts of perverse and obscene things to you against your will."

Aziraphale makes a cracked noise in his throat, which doesn't go unnoticed by at least four of his new companions.

"Terrible." He makes his voice say, though he doesn't seem to have gotten the inflection quite right. 

There's a moment of pointed quiet, in which several demons shuffle a little closer.

"I mean -" Rook starts carefully. "You wouldn't be at fault, obviously, what with them tying you down and forcing themselves on you. They're demons, right, it's to be expected. They're a right bunch of fucking fiends, taking your precious angel virginity. Nothing you could do about it, so you wouldn't be punished for it."

Aziraphale's inhale sounds a lot like a gasp. "Of course, nothing I could do," he says, through an exceptionally dry throat. "I'd be utterly helpless against their wicked demonic lusts."

There's a slow creak of chairs, a drag of heavy material, and someone's grubby boot shifts on the floor. Rook is no longer blinking, feathers rustling in the sluggish, damp breeze from an overhead fan.

"Reckon they'd have you over that table there," he says slowly and pointedly, head tipping sharply in the direction of the sturdy metal thing in the centre of the room. "One after the other, taking turns to fuck you open, all rough and demonic like."

"I expect so," Aziraphale agrees, voice a thin, papery thing that he can barely hang on to. He has no doubt that this is quite possibly the most reckless and insane thing he's ever done. He can feel the rapid pound of his heart in his own throat, cock hardening in his trousers, even as his face heats. He's suddenly very aware of how many demons are in the room with him, and he should be utterly terrified, but his body is so very warm, and he's all but squirming in the horrendously uncomfortable chair. Can you be afraid of something you want so very desperately?

"They wouldn't be kind to you," Abraxas adds carefully, warningly. "They'd just pound away at you for their own pleasure, bruise your pretty angel skin, leave their scent and their come all over you."

Someone groans loudly in the room behind him, and Aziraphale feels light-headed, crowded in, skin suddenly far too tight, like he might split open if he doesn't move soon.

"But, I think if you took one of those blue forms, filled it in, and headed back along the corridor you could probably avoid such a terrible fate," Rook says tightly, like he's forcing the words through his teeth.

The rest of the demons in the room hiss and grunt disappointment, but none of them protest. Which somehow makes it all suddenly very easy.

Aziraphale releases a shaky breath.

"It's a terrible shame I've left all my pens behind then," he says pointedly.

There's a moment of utter stillness, and then an awful lot of movement all at once. Aziraphale is dragged out of his chair by more than two hands, which dig into his clothing in greedy, argumentative pulls, until he's swivelled and pushed roughly over the table, body thudding heavily into the cold metal.

His arms are pulled up over his head, wrists fastened tightly to the legs with strong white rope, that Mantioch seems to have spun swiftly and effortlessly out of his own mouth.

Aziraphale gasps when Rook tugs his head up off the table, fingers hot and narrow on the soft curve of his jaw.

"You can't be held responsible, angel, you're totally blameless in this. Couldn't be expected to fight off what -" the demon does a quick headcount. "Fifteen of us."

Aziraphale moans and tugs at his bonds, finds them utterly inescapable. Which should be terrifying, and in no way reassuring. He relaxes into them with a sigh.

"Yeah, there was nothing you could do," Abraxas says firmly, sliding behind him, and wrapping possessive hands round his still-clothed waist. "We were just too strong for you, overpowered you unexpectedly we did."

Aziraphale makes a shivery noise that he can pretend isn't something close to quiet gratitude.

There are hands after that, so many hands, touching him, sliding under his clothes to squeeze and grope him. While he makes only vaguely protesting, shivery noises, body pulling and twisting in a way that could just as easily move him into those touches, rather than away from them. Someone smells his hair and then makes a pleased sound in their throat, before a different hand drags through it and tugs hard, someone else pins his squirming hips still, weight pressed into him from behind. 

His clothes tear, and he has a moment to hiss genuine displeasure as they're pulled from him in pieces, leaving his warm skin chilling quickly against the cold table. They squeeze at his revealed flesh, muttering delightedly at the way it dents under their fingers, the way it bounces back after every harsh grab. His trousers are roughly tugged open as well, then stripped down his legs with his underwear and shoes, baring him utterly to the shuffling weight of demons behind him. To their noisy approval and obvious excitement. His heart is pounding, not entirely with arousal, which just makes it sweeter and sharper.

"Oh," he shakes out, when there's nothing left to strip from him. When he's more naked than he's ever been in front of anyone. "Please, I can't." Because he has to say that, doesn't he. This is very much not allowed, and if anyone found out that he'd _asked_ for it.

His thighs are tugged apart, rough hands grasping them, more than two, from different demons, as if they're cooperating to spread him. Cooperating to pin him open and vulnerable for their pleasure. And the thought of them all seeing him like this is enough to set him trembling gently, cock impossibly hard against the cold of the table.

"Fuck, would you look at that. A pretty, naked angel all spread out for us to play with."

"Lube him up Abraxas," Rook says easily. "We're not fucking savages."

"I kind of wanted to make him squeal," Abraxas complains.

A few of the others at the back of the room make interested, approving noises at that. Aziraphale bites back on several himself. He believes that he wouldn't be averse to a little squealing, truth be told.

"He's an angel, they're fucking sturdy, he can take anything we give him." Abraxas leans into the back of him, one sharp clawed hand dragging through his hair to ease his head up. "What do you think, angel? You want to squeal for us?"

Aziraphale's throat makes a broken noise of shaky arousal without his consent.

"See, fucking told you." Abraxas says, clearly excited, and Rook rolls his jet black eyes.

"He's not exactly an expert," Rook points out. "Just slick him up a little."

There's a grumble that sounds both murderous and good-natured. Then there's a clap, before two slick fingers, mercifully with their claws now sheathed, press suddenly and shockingly against his anus. They twist and then rub indulgently, as if to test the resistance of his body. Aziraphale has barely any time to absorb the shockingly intimate new sensation before there's pressure, and then the sudden sting of penetration.

"Oh, I can't," he garbles out again.

"You've got no say, angel. We're gonna do what we like with you," Abraxas says, mouth clacking twice, fingers pressing deeper into him in one endless push. "You gotta just lay there and take it."

Aziraphale's whole body trembles at the reminder, at the fact that he's helpless to free himself, helpless to do anything but submit, completely blameless for their actions.

"You're at our mercy now, angel. There's no way you can escape, we're all going to have our way with you." The fingers are moving now, in quick, eager thrusts that stretch him open in hot little stings. "Satan, you're going to feel fucking amazing around my cock."

Aziraphale swallows thickly, body hot and nervous and terribly aroused. He's shifting restlessly against the cool of the table at the promise of more - the impending threat of more. It's hard and uncomfortable against the stiff weight of his erection, but even that is somehow necessary and good.

"Ah, I can't," he says desperately, and it's strangely freeing to go through the motions, to do what's expected of him, while he's so tightly bound and unable to escape. To be able to say ' _I protested, I did, but they did it anyway.'_ Pretending he hadn't all but asked for it. "I can't. It's not allowed." 

The demons behind him choke curses at his desperate protest, or perhaps at the way his body has been moving in lewd little sways while Abraxas fingers him. Which he abruptly stops doing, hand pulling free, and there's a sudden press of hot, rigid flesh that drags from his buttock to the centre of him. Held there for a second before there's a hard nudge of pressure that breaches him. It's barely slick enough to ease the way, and it burns going in, his body opening reluctantly around the width of it. Abraxas groans thickly with pleasure and keeps pushing.

It's too much, too big inside him, an exquisitely painful stretch that's unbearably sexual in a way he's never been allowed. This has always been forbidden, he's always been told that it was not for him, no matter what he felt, no matter how much he wanted. He finds himself whining, hips tilting back as Abraxas's cock keeps coming, so much of it, until the demon is buried fully inside him. 

"Fuck, the angel slut has a tight arse," Abraxas bites out. "Shit, he's going to pinch my fucking dick off." He sounds breathless and delighted, starts careful rocks of his hips that leave Aziraphale gasping. "Can't believe no one's ever had you, angel. You're so fucking soft and tight. We're gonna make a whore out of you, teach you how to take nothing but demon cock."

Something inside Aziraphale clenches hotly at that. At how very apt it feels for him, the possibilities it carefully nudges into life. He breathes noisily into the table, whole body twisting and then arching on a whine as Abraxas starts to thrust properly.

It's uncomfortable and it aches, body tightening every time Abraxas pushes deep, but he's never been so aroused, hands clenched into fists, giving surprised little moans on every exhale.

"Hurry the fuck up Abraxas," someone snaps, voice shaky with impatient lust.

"Fuck, I like the way his body moves. Look how soft he is. Look at it."

"I like it, I can get a good grip on him," Abraxas decides, voice a raspy, clicking grate of approval. He proves as much by digging his sharp claws into Aziraphale's soft hips and tugging him back into every thrust.

"Spread his arse, I want to see his hole all stretched out."

Aziraphale squirms in embarrassment as Abraxas complies with the last request, opening him for their viewing pleasure, whole body prickling with heat as the demon ruts into him, the strange shape of his cock nudging his prostate randomly as he's dragged back onto it, over and over.

It's utterly overwhelming, and so shockingly new. After six thousand years new experiences have become somewhat hard to come by, but this - bent over and spread open and _filled_ , with slick, pushing weight. Being forcibly moved to the demands of someone else's lust. He's not sure he has words for it, it's so much more visceral than he'd thought it would be. And he doesn't want it to stop.

"You like that don't you, you like being put to use?" Abraxas hisses. "You're going to let us desecrate you."

Aziraphale's whole body lurches at the word. "Oh, please," he says quietly, smothers the rest in his own arm so he can pretend he's saying 'please no,' or 'please stop.' So he can pretend he isn't shamelessly begging to be defiled.

But Abraxas grabs his hips again, as if he'd heard him anyway. He fucks into him hard, a dozen quick, deep thrusts before he stills, cock twitching as if it's trying to shove deeper, and Aziraphale is abruptly filled with a hot spill of demon come. He gives a short, startled cry at the faint sting inside him, a reaction to the corrupt demonic essence, and he squirms into the table at that utterly new sensation. His whole body clenches under it, shivery warmth expanding inside him and then bursting, and he realises that he's coming too, cock spurting messily beneath him, coating the metal with come.

He's left shaking and moaning where he's pinned, where he's still filled to aching. He loses control, and the snap of his wings opening drives two demons back and hits Abraxas in the face while he's still groaning through the aftershocks of his own orgasm. They sway awkwardly for a moment, feathers knocking chairs askew, while demons swear, startled and wary.

"Terribly sorry," Aziraphale says shakily, trying to fold them back down, but he's still trembling and clenching around the demon's softening cock. "Oh, goodness, complete accident, my fault entirely."

"S'fine," Mantioch tells him from his position leaning against the side of the table. "Popping wings when you blow, it happens sometimes. Means you liked it. Congratulations, Abraxas, you made an angel come."

There's a small cheer from somewhere further in the room as Abraxas withdraws, followed by a ripple of laughter, and Aziraphale thinks he should probably be terribly embarrassed by it all.

"I should - I really should put them away," he says, still apologetic.

Which is when Schuldich grips the vulnerable, sensitive arch of his wing and pushes his cock into his still-twitching hole.

Aziraphale squeals, whole body shoved into the table, over-sensitive and gasping for air. The demon is using his wing as a handhold as he ruts into him, oily black fingertips digging in, small starbursts of pain and sensation that leave patches of oil that sting on the long bone of his wing. Aziraphale's left moaning into the table with every hard thrust, cock rapidly hardening again.

"Oh, fuck, that's a pretty picture," Rook croaks out. "I'm going next."

"I'm next," Belagor says sharply.

"Fuck you, the angel likes me better."

Aziraphale moans, at the argument that breaks out, at the sudden certainty that all of them plan to have him, to use him over the table until he's sore and open. His cock is already leaving streaks of pre-come on every rough slide across the sticky-wet table at the thought, while his hole clenches and spasms around the dick inside him.

The hold on his wing changes, as Schuldich's hand slips down through the feathers, he's left bent over awkwardly, hips raised, bare chest pressed to the metal, and he can hear the obscene comments, the unexpectedly lascivious appreciation of his form, and his position.

"Not gonna last," Schuldich hisses. "You're still so fucking tight, sweet as temptation itself."

He keeps talking, words gradually getting filthier and more obscene, until Aziraphale's face is burning and every thrust is leaving him clenching in expectation of another orgasm. 

Until Schuldich shudders to a stop, and comes with a series of shivery pushes, fingers digging in hard enough to steal Aziraphale's breath away. Before the demon's hands fall away, cock sliding out of him, and it's Rook who pushes in straight after, all the way to the base with a soft noise of appreciation and impatient lust. Aziraphale can't help but moan shocked embarrassment at how easily the demon enters him, at how wet and open they've left him already.

Rook slips a hand under Aziraphale's body, fondles his hard cock, squeezing the wet, messy head indulgently, and then drifting down to gently tug his balls. Aziraphale pushes into the touch, gives a little grunt of pleasure.

"You look so pretty bent over the table, angel, arse and wings shaking as we fuck you."

"Ah," Aziraphale manages, mouth falling open at the description of himself, at how he must look to them all. He should be ashamed - he should be so terribly ashamed. Instead he grips the table tightly, body shaking under every thrust as he groans and comes in hard pulses that instantly smear against his stomach, cock pushed through its own mess. Rook makes a soft, pleased noise of satisfaction and fucks him harder.

Aziraphale whimpers, twitches and gasps helplessly, too sensitive to do anything but take it.

"Angel needs a cock in his mouth," Belagor decides. "I want to watch someone fuck that pretty mouth."

Rook makes a sound of shivery agreement and pushes in harder, making Aziraphale moan shamelessly. There are hands on his wings again, sharp-nailed but careful, they leave his body slightly arched, unable to do anything but let himself be dragged back into every quick thrust.

"How about it angel? Want a demon cock in your mouth?"

Aziraphale's whole body tightens at the question, it's obscene and perverse, and he can't bear the thought of it. When a hand fists in his hair, tugging his head round, he shuts his eyes and wets his lips, hears the greedy hiss and feels the fumble of fingers that tug his mouth open wide.

A cock is pushed past his lips, thick and ridged and unnaturally hot on the wet length of his tongue. The demon it belongs to smells like shoe polish and rubber, and they give a long shudder of bliss and start to move into Aziraphale's mouth, leaving that slick rubber taste against his teeth and tongue. He's clumsy and unpractised, not used to the fullness, or the stretch, saliva pooling and dripping out of his mouth. The demon doesn't even seem to mind the occasional jolting scrape of teeth. 

"Suck on it angel, ah, yes, that's it, that's very good." His head is gently tilted to make the angle easier.

"Don't be so nice. Choke him on it, Ixos," someone snaps.

"Come on his face," someone else says, sounding overexcited. "Cover him in it."

"Shit, we're gonna send him back upstairs stinking of demon spunk," a third voice says with a laugh, as if they can't imagine anything more perverse.

Rook is moving quick and hard now, chasing his pleasure in Aziraphale's willing body, little whistling 'caws' coming out of his mouth every time he goes deep.

"Tip your head back a little and relax your throat," the demon Aziraphale is sucking, Ixos, tells him patiently. "Just open a little for it, I'll slide right in."

He does as he's told, finds the resulting nudge and stretch to be strangely invasive but oddly appealing. He garbles a noise of appreciation, and gets a slightly harder push into his throat. He can't see much of the demon in his mouth from this angle. There are falling coils of long, white hair over small breasts, and there's a strange iridescent sheen to the demon's skin, like the inside of a shell. Their fingers click oddly when they push through Aziraphale's hair. The demon has no testicles but instead a slick vent that they're gently penetrating with the long fingers of their other hand, sighing quietly.

"You're a fast learner, such a nice, cool mouth you have. It feels so good, you're doing so well."

Aziraphale shivers and moans at the praise. 

Rook has finished and eased out of him, Aziraphale can feel his come dripping out of his arse, running obscenely down the back of his soft thigh. The crow demon shifts aside for Mantioch, whose cock is a strange, spiralling curve, terribly awkward to take, but once it's inside him it rolls over his prostate in hard drags, leaving him jerking and groaning around the cock now pistoning in and out of his mouth.

"Fuck," someone says to his left, and there's the sound of a zip, and then flesh meeting flesh, hard and fast, closely followed by the wet splash of come across the side of Aziraphale's face and half of his left wing. 

Which fills the room with laughter, and mockery. A strong, slippery hand rubs the fluid into his feathers, a shiver of scratchy heat and invasive demonic energy which leaves him moaning.

The spider demon fucks him slow and hard, and Aziraphale finds himself opening his mouth for a second, and then a third cock to find their release down his throat, lips bruised and red, jaw aching. He's gasping every breath, floating in raw sensation for a while, body hot and sensitive and sore. Before he's tipped into a more pleasing position, erection sliding from the table to swing heavy and aching between his legs, slapping his balls with every thrust. 

His head is lifted again, by strong fingers tangled impatiently in his hair, and there's a thumb pulling his jaw down, before the odd shape of another cock is worked into his mouth in quick nudges. He sucks at it awkwardly, which gets him a hiss and the writhe of something down his throat.

"Fucking look at him."

"We should keep him," someone murmurs, almost too quiet to hear.

"I'm hard again, can I go again?" Abraxas asks, teeth clicking sharply.

"No, you've fucking had your turn, I haven't fucked him yet."

Mantioch comes with a long, gentle shiver, pouring obscenely into Aziraphale's over-used body before he's sliding free, leaving Aziraphale gaping and empty for long enough that he moans around the current cock in his mouth, and gets a hard, squirming thrust into his throat, and the bitter taste of come. 

Sharp claws roughly catch his hips, and he's suddenly stretched and then abruptly filled again, this cock much wider and longer than the last. His mouth is empty enough to gasp this time, to groan at the rough drag on his over-stretched, sensitive rim.

"If we roll him over he could take two dicks in him," someone says, voice a greedy hiss.

"Fuck, yes, I want to see that pink hole stuffed full of cock."

"Two in his arse and one in his mouth, that'd be fucking lovely."

"Why not two in his mouth as well, make him open wide and choke on them."

"Shut the fuck up, I'm trying not to come here. I haven't bloody had a go yet."

Aziraphale's fingers are digging into the metal of the table so hard it's deforming into holes, listening to the increasingly obscene suggestions of the crowd of demons around him. He finds himself picturing most of them being done to him, even the ones that sound perverse seem bearable, seem like the sort of thing his body could take without breaking. This isn't his fault after all, he's simply a body being used by demons, everything is permitted.

_Everything is permitted._

He moans loudly into the table.

Belagor fucks him hard, taking advantage of his relaxed, well-lubricated hole to pump quick and rough into him. In a way that Aziraphale had never imagined he would have enjoyed quite so much.

Someone is petting his hair, nails dragging through the half-curls of it in a way that feels possessive and indulgent. Another hand is tugging at his wing, the drag of his longest feathers shifting back and forth in a way that suggests someone is using it to masturbate. He should be utterly appalled, he should be horrified. But he's making strangled, needy noises into the metal underneath him, that smells like ink, and urine, and pennies. While Belagor continues to pound into his sore arse like there's nothing he'd rather be doing. It's utterly overwhelming, that brutal, uncompromising burn that he can't get away from, no matter how he pulls at the bindings on his wrists. 

Aziraphale has to though, doesn't he? He has to make at least a token protest, to struggle against the sweet burn and twist of delicious sensation. He has to fight at least a little against that hot coil of lust and need that's been biting at him for years and years. The desperation to know, to _feel_ , to have someone use him for their own pleasure. To be helpless under his own. It's more intense than he ever imagined. He's making wet little 'ah' noises on every exhale, knocked out of him by the jolt of his body. His third erection sliding slickly through the pool of his own come.

There's an odd clicking noise to his left, and he rolls his head, focuses, finds Lucille watching him with her big eyes.

"Still alright down there, angel?" she asks curiously.

Aziraphale's attempt to reply is knocked into pieces by a particularly hard thrust. Which he thinks was rather rude. Even if it does make him whine and push back into it.

"I'm quite trapped I'm afraid, thoroughly - ah - unable to escape. Oh Heaven's, please."

"See, he's fine," Belagor says, sounding utterly delighted. "He fucking loves it, the filthy angel is enjoying being mounted and pounded like a hellhound bitch." 

Aziraphale groans at the humiliating truth of it. The pace picks up as Belagor seems to realise that Aziraphale is not going to protest otherwise. Which seems to encourage him further.

"You come down here, swanning in with your wings and your fucking halo. Tempting us to sin with your soft, untouched body. What did you think was going to happen, angel? What else were we going to do but tie you down and fuck your tight, virgin hole until you begged."

Aziraphale gasps something that wants to be a word, a protest, a plea not to stop, but it just comes out as noise, body squirming as Belagor's hips smack brutally against the softness of his arse.

"Please," he says simply. 

"Not until you've had all of us," Belagor hisses. "Every demon cock in this room is going in your arse."

"Fuck -" Aziraphale shudders and gives a long, cracking wail of sound. He orgasms, helplessly, while Belagor crams in deep and fills him with come.

When he draws out Aziraphale can feel the thick wetness of it running down his thigh, hot and stinging just a fraction against the holiness of his skin. He's still trembling, still whimpering with exquisite aftershocks when they move him into position again, his anus slick and open, likely bruise-red, offered up to whoever's turn it is next.

He doesn't recognise the demon who replaces Belagor, but he's much thinner, sharp fingers tugging his wings down painfully, pace jackrabbit fast in a way that's almost over the line of too much. He lasts barely any time at all before shoving in tight and spilling come inside Aziraphale with a squeaky moan.

Aziraphale's body is jolted roughly, as the last demon is physically pulled out of him to make way for the next, who slides in hard enough to leave his hips smacking into the metal table with a painful jolt.

"Ah." The thought that they are this greedy for him, this desperate to have him, leaves him light-headed. He's keening quietly, feeling utterly helpless and trembling with need, ashamed of how much he wants it, of how much he's taken already. It's overwhelming and he doesn't have the experience to deal with it. Not with this, forehead rolling on the table, breath punching out of him on every greedy thrust. "I can't, I can't."

There's a hand in his hair suddenly, long fingers drifting slowly across his scalp.

"Shush, you can't get away from us," Rook tells him, where he's crouched by Aziraphale's head, hand carefully petting his hair in a way that's quietly reassuring. "No matter how much you struggle. It's alright, angel, this is all our fault. You can just lay there and take it, and make as much noise as you like."

Aziraphale can hear it now, the slick wet sound of him being fucked, over and over, it leaves him making breathy noises of embarrassed arousal into his own arm. At how open he is, how willing, and it's all so obvious, so obscenely obvious.

The next demon who steps up behind him tilts his hips and makes a deep, greedy noise of lust, his large, hard cock sliding through the warm slickness coating his arse and thighs.

"Satan, he's so wet back here, I don't think we can get any more come inside him to be honest."

The demons make loud noises of approval at the words, and Aziraphale resists the urge to bite down on his own arm, at the reminder of how utterly filled with their filth he is now. At how many demons have _used_ him.

"He doesn't seem to mind us trying though, do you, angel?" Abraxas is leaning against the other side of the table, one clawed hand grabbing Aziraphale's buttock and easing him open wider for those watching behind, displaying him for their pleasure.

"Hnh, no, I'm utterly at your mercy," Aziraphale slurs into the table, breath a dry rasp from his bruised throat. Though he does hiss sharply when he's swiftly penetrated again, and he has barely any time to adjust before the nameless demon is fucking in hard. He's going to be exceptionally sore once they're all done. "Foul demons." 

~

Rook and Abraxas carefully help Aziraphale into his repaired clothes when it's all over, giving little chuffing laughs when he fusses gently at their buttoning technique. He feels floaty, and shivery, and very, very sore, tremendously well-used and strangely free of all worries. They'd cleaned him up with a quick demonic miracle. And he'd numbed some of the after-effects, enough that he can stand and walk without hissing pain. But he doesn't want to miracle away any more. It's really rather nice when Rook pets his hair, and when Schuldich tells him with shy honesty that he was the sweetest fuck he's ever had. Mantioch fills in his form for him, in his appropriately spidery handwriting, and Belagor and Ixos fight over who gets to re-tie his bow tie.

After, they all insist that he takes their summoning sigils.

"Just in case, y'know, you want to get captured by a demon some time," Rook says.

"Or, all of us, we could see if our schedules line up," Mantioch offers.

Aziraphale is very, very touched. He watches them head off in ones and twos with a strange new sort of fondness.

"Just as an aside," Rook says quietly, head tilted sharply to one side. "I used to be - well, someone who would know. And I'm pretty sure they're lying to you. No one's ever Fallen for having sex. Ever. Was designed as an act of creation, wasn't it? Still an act of love and all that. Think about it."

The crow demon shoves his hands into his back pockets, gives a long, slow blink of his inky eyes, and then heads back into the darkness.

~

Gabriel is waiting for him on the ground floor. In his suit that always looks like it was made for someone with more personality. A lot of things seem to be wasted on Gabriel.

"Aren't you glad that I came for you, Aziraphale." It's not so much a question as a less than subtle suggestion. 

He clearly expects gratitude, expects to be treated like he's rescued Aziraphale from a terrible fate - or, more likely, rescued him after a terrible fate has already befallen him.

"Yes, very glad, Gabriel." His mouth rebels against forming the words, but Aziraphale has had long years to become used to ignoring that. "Thank you ever so much."

"I imagine that whatever happened was very traumatic for you," Gabriel says with a frown, in what he clearly thinks is a sympathetic and supportive tone of voice, rather than the rushed tone of a man-shaped being who has somewhere else to be. "Demons can be very brutal, especially in their indulgences, in their vile lusts. They're wanton and vicious and you should always remember that." He gives Aziraphale a meaningful look.

"Of course, of course, I've quite learned my lesson," Aziraphale says, in what he hopes is an appropriately watery fashion.

"You don't want to Fall, do you, Aziraphale? You don't want to experience something like that again."

"No, no, of course not. I quite understand. I shall endeavour to do better."

"I'm doing this for your own good," Gabriel insists. "To keep you on the right path, away from indulgences, away from sin. Important things are about to start happening. The balls are going to start rolling. We need everyone ready, we need everyone sharp, fully in with the Plan."

Aziraphale nods, forces a serious expression onto his face.

"Of course, quite right."

"Good, good, well done." Gabriel briefly looks like he's debating whether he should pat Aziraphale on the back, or provide some sort of appropriate physical reassurance. He eventually seems to decide it's unnecessary, much to Aziraphale's relief.

As soon as Gabriel leaves Aziraphale lets his face relax, sighs out a breath. He begins the slow, careful walk back to the bookshop.

He has an awful lot of things to think about.


End file.
